


Let’s Not Talk

by highestkingbambi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Casual drinking, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, They get their wires crossed but it all works out in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 15:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15776550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highestkingbambi/pseuds/highestkingbambi
Summary: “I don’t know how it got so bad.”Quentin’s voice breaks the delicate silence in the unexpectedly empty Physical Cottage. Ever since they returned from Brooklyn, Eliot has been comfortable sitting on the couch beside Quentin in quiet solidarity. Talking about the awkward interaction he witnessed is the last thing he wants to do.An exploration of what may have happened while Quentin and Eliot were sitting on the couch after retrieving their book from Julia and the Hedge Witches—if Kady hadn’t blasted the door down.





	Let’s Not Talk

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic written entirely from Eliot’s perspective. I hope you think I’ve done him justice. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who I’ve bothered while complaining about writing this fic. A special shout out to [OneEyedDestroyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildeBones/pseuds/OneEyedDestroyer) for being real with me about how bad the original ending was, and her inspiration for how it now ends. I couldn’t write without you.

“I don’t know how it got so bad.”

Quentin’s voice breaks the delicate silence in the unexpectedly empty Physical Cottage. Ever since they returned from Brooklyn, Eliot has been comfortable sitting on the couch beside Quentin in quiet solidarity. Talking about the awkward interaction he witnessed is the last thing he wants to do. 

“You found out who you are and she found out who she’s not,” he says, recognizing that Quentin desperately requires some encouragement. “Life.” He softens his face, trying what he thinks might be a comforting look. “Tell you what,” he says, leaning over to fill Quentin’s near-empty glass. His hand hovers over Quentin’s thigh as he considers using it to steady himself. Probably too familiar for the current mood. Instead, Eliot settles for his own. “Let’s not talk.”

Silence resumes and Eliot allows himself to sink into the couch. Wine glass in hand, he takes lazy sips of the passable California Syrah. Not even close to his ideal varietal, it is better than he expects from a bodega fronting a pathetic Hedgewitch safehouse. The reminder of their ‘adventure’ into the city has him loll his head to the right, checking on Quentin with a deceptively casual glance. For a brief moment, his eyes linger on Quentin’s wine-stained lips and sees them pursed in rueful contemplation. He’s tempted to lean over and find out if the wine tastes better on Quentin’s tongue than it does from the glass. A terrible idea considering his companion’s relative misery. Eliot tries to refocus his attention on the way Quentin holds his glass so completely wrong—he was doing so well before the refill. The top of the stem rests between his index and middle finger, while his palm presses against the bowl. Sighing, Eliot laments that Quentin doesn’t know or care that the heat of his hand raises the temperature of the wine, damaging the already average notes of too-sweet jam and too-subtle pepper. He puts that on his mental list of essential adult skills he intends to teach Quentin over the course of their relationship.

Friendship. They are just friends. Eliot doesn’t like to complicate things with friends; except Margo, but she transcends the traditional expectations of friendship. Maybe Quentin can be like that too, though it’s unlikely—there will never be anyone like Margo. Rather than think about it any longer, he closes his eyes and silently ranks his favorite cabernet regions. _Médoc, Saint-Julien, Graves..._

The next time he looks over, Eliot tries to avoid looking down. It’s not even to stop from perving—although Quentin’s penchant for tight jeans does have its benefits. No, he doesn’t look down because he can feel the anxiety radiating from Quentin. If he looks down, Eliot knows he will see how badly Quentin needs comfort and he’s never certain if offering genuine comfort is something he’s capable of. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies the fingers of Quentin’s free hand frantically pulling stray threads from the hem of his jeans. Well, fuck—now he has to do something. 

“It’s not your fault,” Eliot says softly, placing his hand over Quentin’s, preventing him from tearing the cloth. With a single stroke of his index finger between Quentin's knuckles, the fidgeting ceases. They share a furtive glance before resuming their wordless drinking, and Eliot’s hand finds a new place to rest on his thigh; safe from the temptation to do more than soothe Quentin’s restless digits. 

Seducing Quentin would be so simple. Eliot has seen the way Quentin looks at him when he thinks no one is paying attention. Starting with a smooth slide across the few inches that separate them, he could gently place his hand around Quentin’s wrist, stroke his thumb along the sensitive skin and have him melt under his touch. Eliot wonders whether or not Quentin possesses a vestigial tendon before he realizes what a terribly nerdy thing that is to consider. What a ‘Quentin-y’ concept to ponder. He reburies the idea of seducing Quentin. They already spend too much time together; they’re too friendly as is.

Beneath him, the cushions shift and Eliot notices Quentin place his empty glass on the coffee table. Leaning forward, Eliot puts his glass down and reaches for the bottle, assuming it's time for a top up. He’s wrong. Quentin turns his whole body to face him. Bringing his legs up into the couch, he folds them under his tiny ass. His knees rub against Eliot’s thighs, jittering with nervous energy desperate to be released. 

Eliot turns his torso, laying his right arm across the top of the cushions to get more comfortable. The worn out fabric that was no doubt already vintage by the time they were born is somehow both soft and scratchy on his bare forearm, but he doesn’t have long to think on the logical inconsistency; the distraction of Quentin’s vibrating legs is too much. 

“Okay, so like, I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t stop feeling bad—she was my best friend,” Quentin says. His shaking causes his hair to fall on his face, and Eliot reaches over to brush it behind his ear. Eyes wide as he realizes what he’s doing, he can’t stop himself. When he touches Quentin’s skin, Eliot expects him to recoil with that familiar turtling reaction he’s seen once or twice in the few months they’ve known each other. 

Quentin doesn’t pull back. 

Eliot takes a beat to compose his face. Shock is not an expression he enjoys displaying—it’s too real. “Of course you feel bad,” he says, slowly removing his fingers from behind Quentin’s ear. They hover between them while Eliot works out his next move. “You’re Quentin—if I know anything about you, it’s that you search for a reason to feel bad.”

The cushions stop moving as Quentin’s nervous shaking ceases, leaving his knees pressing gently into Eliot’s thigh. A light blush appears on his cheeks. “I’m...yeah,” Quentin says with the tiniest smirk on his red lips as his gaze drops ever so slightly. Quentin is so fucking cute and he barely even knows it. 

Part of him thinks there is a chance that the guilty look is Quentin flirting. Perhaps even in a conscious way—though that can’t be true. They may have only known each other for three months, but Eliot has not once seen him talk to anyone without an element of panic in his eyes. This feels different—like something has changed. But then again he’s drunk half a bottle of wine, and even if that barely touches the sides, it’s as good an excuse as any to consider his judgment impaired. 

It’s been so long since Eliot has experienced a genuine connection with a person other than Margo that he doesn’t know if his attraction is real or he has no idea how to deal with his feelings. That’s the real truth. That’s what is holding him back. It’s easier to pretend that intoxication has him confused than admit to himself that he’s afraid. 

His left hand, still hovering between them like a lost mosquito, drops to Quentin’s knees and squeezes. Gentle enough not to hurt, not too gentle that it can be mistaken for a caress. Eliot picks up his glass, takes a long, falsely languid drink and sinks back into the couch. From the outside, it looks innocent, just two friends. The afternoon is supposed to be about offering comfort to a friend struggling with the reality that magic isolates. Eliot’s been isolated so long it feels like that’s the only way to exist. They might as well get comfortable with it. 

Beside him Quentin shuffles and mimics Eliot’s movements, resting back against the couch, leaving his empty glass on the coffee table. His neck lays on Eliot’s forearm, but neither of them says anything. Almost no gap between them on the sofa, Quentin reminds Eliot of a shy, but friendly house cat. If he doesn’t push, lays out a few treats and waits; eventually, Quentin feels safe enough to come to sit by his side. 

“I think…” Eliot’s thoughts are interrupted by more nervous posturing from Quentin. “Like, in some ways it’s great that she found magic anyway, but it just—you know.” Tucked into Eliot’s arm, he looks up, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he swallows before continuing his almost incoherent point. “It sucks that she had to find it with them, while I get...you.” Quentin’s voice fades out to an almost inaudible whisper, but Eliot knows he’s not mistaken. 

The toughest thing about being ‘Eliot’—the persona, rather than the man inside—is the delicate line between appearing to be someone who has no self-restraint and actually being someone for whom every action is calculated. Only with Quentin leaning into his side like he’s propping up a structural wall, resting his head on his arm, Eliot truly struggles to contain himself. The feeling of Quentin snuggling into him causes a slight hardening in Eliot’s pants, and he knows that if he’s not careful, he’ll reconsider everything he said he wouldn’t do. 

“Explain to me what you mean by ‘get me,’” he says, trying to make it seem like everything is on Quentin. His right hand rests on Quentin’s shoulder, lightly pressing forward to angle them towards each other. 

“You know,” Quentin replies, letting Eliot move him like a rag doll. His fingers fiddle in the creases of his jeans and Eliot puts his glass down again. He’s touched Quentin’s hand so many times this day that it’s starting to feel like a ritual. He wraps his fingers around Quentin’s anxious digits and holds them tight in the palm of his hand. He brings his other hand up from Quentin’s shoulder and strokes his thumb across the back of his neck. Quiet murmurs escape Quentin’s lips as his eyes close. 

Eliot’s spent so much of the evening telling himself not to do precisely what he’s doing. Now that he’s started he doesn’t know if anything short of Quentin telling him to back off can stop him from potentially changing their relationship forever. 

Letting go of Quentin’s no longer shaking fingers, Eliot places his hand halfway up Quentin’s thigh, testing for a reaction. When Quentin doesn’t move away, he rubs small strokes with his fingers along the inner seam of his jeans. A small sigh followed by a broken breath leaves Quentin’s lips, telling him he’s going in the right direction. 

A hand settles on his side, and Eliot looks down to see Quentin's hand squeezed between him and the couch. Eyes back on Quentin’s face, Eliot notices a stray eyelash sits on the top of his cheek. Eliot brings his hand up from Quentin’s thigh and brushes it away. Lingering on Quentin’s blushing cheek for a moment, he threads his fingers into Quentin’s hair. Devoid of any product, the mousy brown strands are surprisingly soft. 

Quentin’s lowered eyelids and partially opened lips are the last things Eliot sees before he kisses him. A caress at first, barely more than the light brushing of skin, he feels for Quentin’s reaction. The hand on his side tenderly grasps his vest. His eyes flutter open to see that Quentin’s are closed as he breathes lightly. Eliot thinks his heart skips a beat while he gazes at Quentin’s now tranquil face. Wrapping his arm around Quentin’s waist, Eliot resumes their delicate kiss. 

Lips parted, Eliot takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between them, tracing the tip over Quentin’s tongue. The taste of the wine is headier in his mouth than it was from the glass and he can’t help but deepen the kiss. Quentin encourages him, their tongues dancing over each other, urging the kiss to continue, to be joined by curious hands that search for skin beneath their many layers of clothing. It’s much easier for him than it is for Quentin. His hand slips beneath the loose chambray shirt and thermal tee to rest his palm on the warm skin at the small of Quentin’s back.

Quentin arches up towards him, gripping Eliot’s tie, bringing their bodies closer together. It’s everything that Eliot imagined and nothing like what he’s accustomed to. He doesn’t know if he should pull Quentin up to lay him back down on the couch or if he can bring his usual moves and lead them back to his bedroom and see how far it can go. He doesn’t want to push it. Quentin isn’t like other conquests—Eliot doesn’t hold back for just anyone, and he’s been holding back for some time. 

While Eliot considers his next move, Quentin successfully untucks his shirt. Shivering under his touch, he’s pleasantly surprised when Quentin’s fingers delve beneath his waistband. He’s bolder than Eliot expects, making it so much harder for him to deny his desires. Gently shoving Quentin, so he lies on his back, Eliot lays beside him, leaning against his chest. He feels the pounding of his heartbeat, his lungs filling with ragged and wanting breaths. Their lips break apart for only as long as is necessary for their new position. Quentin lets out a quiet laugh, quickly cut off by Eliot’s mouth. 

They don’t need to say anything. Their bodies speak loud enough to tell each other that whatever they are doing is precisely what they want for the moment. Eliot’s hand slides up Quentin’s side, beneath his undershirt. A light layer of sweat develops on Quentin’s skin as they continue to get to know each other’s tastes. He wants to take Quentin’s shirt off, to drag his teeth and lips over Quentin’s skin, but he’s not sure that’s the best idea. 

It doesn’t take a black light to know that the couch they are on contains the DNA of decades worth of amorous Physical students. His own is undoubtedly mixed in somewhere, from more than a few occasions. Adding Quentin’s feels like it would cheapen things; he hasn’t held back for three months to do the same thing he always does. 

Quentin has other plans. The buttons of Eliot’s vest miraculously come undone and Quentin’s hand quickly slips beneath it. 

“How?” Eliot questions between kisses. Telekinesis is his thing, and there hasn’t been any indication that it’s a trait Quentin shares. 

“I’m really good at sleight of hand,” Quentin answers with too much confidence for a man who was so recently upset about an altercation with his friend. 

The tiniest seed of doubt creeps into Eliot’s mind; is Quentin just using him to ignore his feelings about what happened earlier? That is his _modus operandi_. He’s never cared how it could feel to the dozens of nameless hookups over the years—to potentially be on the receiving end isn’t a feeling he appreciates. He doesn’t even know if his concern is founded and yet, he can’t help but hesitate. He places his hand on Quentin’s chest and gets up from the couch. 

Sighing, Eliot smooths down his slacks and adjusts his tie. Picking up his wine glass, he finishes the dregs in a single gulp. 

“Oh,” Quentin says, and it’s clear to Eliot that he’s confused. Quentin scrambles up on the couch, his legs up at his chest. “Did I do something wrong?” Quentin asks, his eyes on Eliot’s shoes, unable to look up at him. 

Eliot chides himself. Perhaps he was wrong. But even if he isn’t wrong about being used, the sight of Quentin turtling up on the couch, his cheeks still flushed from their make out, has him want to claw back the last minute and do it all over again. He sits beside Quentin, tentatively wrapping his arm around him. Swallowing, he considers how he can fix it, when he feels Quentin stirring. 

“This,” Quentin starts, rolling out of Eliot’s embrace. “This is the exact shit that Julia pulled.” It’s Quentin’s turn to stand; he moves to the opposite side of the coffee table, tearing his fingers through his hair. He quickly starts to pace the length of the table, before he stops abruptly in front of Eliot. “I’m not some fragile little bird that needs to be protected, and I wasn’t kissing you because I wanted you to make me feel better.”

“I nev—“ Eliot protests. 

“I like you okay,” Quentin doesn’t let him speak, cutting him off with that same confidence that had Eliot worried in the first place. Now that Quentin’s intentions are starting to become clear, he finds it just as attractive as the awkward bumbling. “You’re fucking hot, and you’re cool and you—up until now—treat me like a normal person and not some charity case.” Eliot wants to stay serious while Quentin speaks, but he can’t help but smile, he likes this side of him. “But if that’s what I really am—just like, the girl from She’s All That or whatever, then I dunno, just say it now, and I’ll go to my room, and we can forget about everything.”

Successfully keeping in an affectionate laugh, Eliot stands up. With a lazy wave of his hand, the coffee table slides across the floor, removing any barrier between them. Stepping forward to bridge the space that separates them, he places a light hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “While I am thrilled you would compare me with late nineties Freddie Prinze Jnr,” he says, incapable of hiding his delight. “I don’t need some bet to realize that I’m into you.”

“Then what is it?” The force in Quentin’s voice falters. 

“Oh you know, the usual insecurities,” Eliot says, waving his hand to keep Quentin from taking in the truth of his admission. He looks up to see Quentin’s face is scrunched up in disbelief. “Don’t be so shocked. I am still human after all.” 

Quentin stifles a laugh and moves to place a hand on Eliot’s hip. Before he can reach, Eliot takes it, sliding Quentin’s hand beneath his untucked button down. He feels goosebumps form at the touch of Quentin’s fingers, delicately brushing his skin above the waist of his trousers. Eliot teases his fingers into Quentin’s hair and wraps his arm around Quentin’s waist—or as close to his waist as he can reach without hunching. 

Pulling Quentin into his body is easy. Kissing him, not so much. The angles are more difficult with them standing. He has to crane his neck to reach Quentin’s lips. Even when Quentin stands in his toes, it does little to make it comfortable. 

Eliot doesn’t care. 

Eyes held tightly closed, he can’t see if Quentin’s are too. All he has to guide him is instinct. Their tongues roll and twist, lips never parting from each other. His hand reaches below Quentin’s shirt, and he pulls it up from the back, running his fingers over smooth skin. Quentin grips his sides, slowly rocking their bodies back and forth. No idea how long they are there for, Eliot feels a strain in the back of his neck just as strongly as he feels the tightening of his trousers. If this were anyone else, they would already be in his bedroom, naked from the waist down—at the very least. But Quentin isn’t anyone else, and Eliot doesn’t want to ruin whatever they already have by being too presumptuous. Without realizing it, he breaks their lips apart, subconsciously hoping that a few breaths will clear his mind. 

“My room or yours?” Quentin asks, his voice airy as he catches his breath. The question reminds Eliot that the inside of his head is the last place he should be. Quentin’s fingers slip between Eliot's waistband and his skin—there is only one answer. 

“Definitely mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are much appreciated. 
> 
> I’d also love to know what you thought of my Eliot POV, was it believable?


End file.
